


Rebound

by dovahgriin



Series: Reader Inserts [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward Conversations, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Kissing, Light Angst, Male-Female Friendship, Netflix and Chill, Older Man/Younger Woman, Possibly Unrequited Love, The Bee Movie - Freeform, no y/n, plus size reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-28 18:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovahgriin/pseuds/dovahgriin
Summary: Portals aren't real. They can't be real. When your friend-slash-friend-with-benefits disappears into one before your very eyes, you go into panic mode.Peter Parker better have a good explanation for this shit, ‘cause it sure as hell ain’t funny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So basically the plan for this fic is fluff > angst > smut
> 
> also, here this is for all your thirsty Peter dadBod Parker needs! the sad trash man is my favorite Peter Parker ever and I'm going to rub my nasty lil reader insert hands all over his character

The nice thing about being neighbors with your rebound-slash-fuck-buddy is that you don’t really need to go far for a booty call. It’s also convenient as all hell, which is great for when you’re out-of-your-mind-horny.

Today is not one of those days. With the amount of brooding over your ex-fiancé that you’re doing, though, it could very well turn into one of _those_ kinds of days — one of the bad ones where no amount of fucking your neighbor will pull you out of the clouds in your head.

_This is the Bad Place._

It’s been almost a year already, but you still can’t believe that he had had the nerve to cheat on you and then act like it was _your_ fault because you were never home. (You’d been finishing up your final year of college, the dick. Joke’s on him, though. You now make more than he ever will. Even with the crushing burdens of four years’ worth of student debt, you are still financially better off than he is.) There’s only one known cure-all for when shit gets funky in your head — pizza and a movie.

… You know perfectly well that it’s not the most healthy of coping mechanisms. What do you care if you’ve put on enough weight to go up a jean size (or three)? You don’t have a problem with it (and as your neighbor has said before, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a little more ‘cushion for the pushin’’.) The stretch marks that have appeared on your hips and belly provide you with endless entertainment. You’re just… so _soft_ now.

But, yeah, pizza. Movie. Those both sound like very good things right now.

Shooting off a text to your neighbor, you grab your wallet and keys. _U down to hang w/ pizza and a bad movie? Im buying and i WILL eat the entire pizza w/o u if u wanna be alone._

You can hear the familiar chime of the ringtone he’s assigned you through the thin apartment walls. You don’t wait for a reply, setting your phone to vibrate before you grab your jacket — you’re no native of New York and the cold still seeps into your bones unless you bundle yourself up like a human burrito. It _is_ autumn, after all.

The front door of the complex squeaks on its hinges when you shut it, grating on your ears. _Really oughta call the landlady about that…_ (but you won’t; Mona just had her baby girl, and you want to make her life as easy as possible while she settles into new parenthood.)

The wind nips at your nose and the tips of your ears. You pull your hood up and begin to walk briskly down the sidewalk. The local pizzeria isn’t that far away, and you only have to wave before the chef, Luca, is calling out your order. “It’ll be ready in twenty minutes, _bella donna_.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly as you pay. “Keep the change.”

Sitting down in one of the plastic lawn chairs they have lined up by the door, you sigh. It’s quiet in the restaurant for once, which is nice. The air is warm with spices and yeast and smoke from the open brick oven. You close your eyes and _breathe._

Your phone is silent. Double checking it confirms that _yes,_ you have exactly zero (0) new messages. He’s read it, though, you just know it. Your stomach begins to knot with anxiety.

Has he changed his mind about the thing you two have going on? ( _No,_ you tell yourself. _Peter wouldn’t leave me hanging like that. He’d tell me if her was done with what we’ve got._ ) Did he go to try and patch things up with Mary Jane? ( _Doubtful. He still refuses to see her, even though I’ve been_ telling _him that it’s the only way to start to fix their relationship._ )  Is he out hero-ing again? ( _That’s… actually a possibility. He’s seemed slightly perkier than usual, but that could just be because I’ve been paying for his pizza._ )

Shaking your head, you slide your cell phone back into your jacket pocket. Whatever. If he responds by the time you get your hands on the pizza, great. If not, that’s his loss and your gain. (You weren’t lying when you told him that you would finish the damn pizza yourself.)

Time seems to slow to a crawl as you fiddle with a thread hanging from your sleeve. _Just forget about him for five minutes,_ you think. _Stop getting attached. You know that you’re just a stop on his way back to MJ, just like he’s just a notch in your bedpost until you can put your big girl panties on and put yourself out there again._

And it’s true. You’re not stupid, you know that sex this good doesn’t last forever, even if acknowledging the fact stings like salt in an open wound. You’ve seen how his hazel eyes go soft when he talks about his ex-wife. He still loves her, wants to get her back, and you can’t really blame him. Mary Jane is… well, Mary Jane. She’s perfect. Incredibly smart, funny as all hell, compassionate to a fault, the whole bundle.

You’d want to get back with someone like that if you were Peter, too, because honestly, he’s a huge fucking mess. A hero, but a mess nonetheless. As it is, though, you really enjoy what you and he have going. It would be a shame to see it end, but you suppose that your toys _have_ been getting neglected recently…

Luca calls out your name and holds up the pizza. The box is steaming. Your hip makes a noise when you stand that it probably shouldn’t make, but hey, it doesn’t hurt, so you opt to ignore it. (You can’t afford a trip to the doctor’s anyway, so it’s a moot point.) You thank Luca again and leave, clutching your prize. If Peter doesn’t respond to your text, you’ll have breakfast set for the next few days. Cold pizza is an acceptable morning meal, no matter what anyone else says.

You’re so lost in your head as you walk back towards your home that you don’t notice when someone begins walking beside you. It’s the flash of red and blue that catches your eye. “Wha–? Oh. Hi, Spiderman.”

The spandex-wearing hero doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t have to. He’s limping a bit, like someone kicked him in the shin really, really hard. You grimace sympathetically. “Tough day?”

He nods.

“That’s sucky. No rest for the weary, et cetera, right?” You glance around and lower your voice when you’re sure that no one will hear you. “You left your phone in your apartment. I’ve been worried sick, Peter.”

“I’m sorry.” He really does sound contrite. “I just… had a burst of energy and I thought, ‘hey, why not make the most of it’?”

The knots in your guts begin to unwind. “Okay. Okay. It’s fine, dude. I just… worry.” Memories of getting so anxious that you had to run to the toilet in order to vomit flash by your mind’s eye. You grunt. “But I get it, and you should make use of that energy when you can. I’m… happy, that you felt like you could do this today.”

And you are. It’s hurt, seeing Peter shut himself away from everything for days — even weeks — on end. It’s not healthy for him — humans need sunlight, after all — and it just… hurts _you,_ on the inside, making you feel like your innards are shrinking.

The blank eyes of his mask scrunch up; he’s either smiling or frowning, but you can’t tell because you can’t see his mouth. You really like his mouth.

“Really?” He sounds skeptical.

“Really,” you nod. “So, uh, since you didn’t actually see my text, do you wanna join me for some pizza and a movie?” Peter goes to answer you, but you interrupt him, head shaking softly.

“What brought you to this part of town anyway?” You say this louder for the benefit of a group of teenage boys walking in the direction of the pizza parlor. One of them catcalls you. Another punches him in the shoulder and apologizes for his friend’s behavior.

You roll your eyes, waving them off. Once they’re far enough away, you reach over to bump your shoulder against Peter’s. He’s tense. “Really though, why are you here? Isn’t there some big crime happening somewhere?”

Peter shrugs. “I was in the neighborhood when I saw you.” He looks down at you. “There were some guys following you around. You didn’t see them, did you?”

“Oh. No, I didn’t see them.” ‘ _Oh,’_ indeed. That could have ended _very_ badly for you. “Thank you. Did you get a look at ‘em?”

“Yeah. I think Spider-Man will be paying a not-so-friendly visit to them later on.”

“Good,” you nod decisively. “They shouldn’t be pulling that sort of shit.”

Peter stops walking, and you follow suit. You’ve reached your apartment complex.

“Thanks for walking me home, man.” Peter snorts when you give him finger-guns.

“No problem at all, ma’am. I’m just your friendly neighborhood spider.” _How many times have I told him not to call me ma’am? It makes me feel old._ “Is the, uh, the invitation still open?”

You raise both of your brows. “Is there still pizza in this box? Your place or mine?”

“I’ll meet you in a few.” He doesn’t even look around before pressing a kiss to your forehead through his mask. Your face feels like it’s on fire and your heart rate picks up. How he doesn’t notice _that,_ you’ll never know.

_Oh, boy. Ohhhhhh, no._

You’re in _so_ much trouble.

* * *

You wait about ten minutes before heading over to Peter’s door, stomach growling the entire time.

He opens the door, out of the suit for once. Your eyebrows go up. “Wow. I haven’t seen you in anything but the suit,” _Or naked,_ your mind adds unhelpfully, “in a really long time. Nice sweats.”

Peter gives you a tired smile. “Yeah, I thought that it was about time that I washed it.”

“Can I come in?” You hold out the pizza box as an offering. It’s not as hot anymore, but it’s still warm. Peter’s eyes light up.

“Yeah, yeah, of course! Come on in.”

Peter’s apartment is… messy. Like, seriously, over-the-top messy. It’s kind of gross, but you don’t really have room to talk since you’ve fucked Peter in here more times than you can count.

You spot his bed through the doorway to your left. The sheets are rumpled. Familiar heat trickles through your veins. _No, we’re here for a movie and pizza. I can’t believe I’ve been conditioned to become aroused at the sight of his bed. I’m like Pavlov’s fucking dog, ugh._

“So, what movie are you in the mood for?” Peter’s voice brings you out of your thoughts. You clear your throat.

“Uh, a comedy. Maybe something animated?” You watch as Peter flips through Netflix before he stops on — “Oh man, I haven’t seen the _Bee Movie_ in forever. Yeah, let’s watch that.”

“You want anything to drink?”

“Don’t worry about it, dude. I know how to drink from the faucet.” Your grin is cheeky. Peter throws his hands up in mock exasperation.

“Fine! Be a barbarian!”

You settle onto his threadbare couch (that you’d helped him pick out), sinking into the overstuffed cushions with the pizza box on your lap. “Says the man who drinks orange juice straight from the carton. _That’s_ barbaric. Pizza?” Peter takes the slice that you’re holding out to him.

The _sound_ he makes as he bites into the pizza has you pressing your thighs together. _Fuck, stop it, don’t get aroused right now, think of sad things!! Kittens without a mother, the president, global warming—!_

Thankfully, it works. The heat recedes, and you can eat your pizza in peace while watching the increasingly bad animated film.

You forgot how fucking funny it is. Each joke is worse than the last and the _puns,_ the puns ruin you. Bad wordplay is one of your favorite things. You get so hysterical that your laughter just turns into squeaking, and that in turn sets Peter off. After that, you’re not really doing much eating; you’re too busy gasping for air in between quoting the movie at each other and laughing.

Sometime during your back-and-forth with Peter, you end up with your head on his lap, pizza tossed on the floor. He’s smiling so wide, and you’ve never seen him really _smile_ like this before. It makes his whole face glow.

You like seeing him happy. You want to see him happy more often.

He looks down at you. His eyes are roving over your face. It looks like he wants to say something but can’t find the words to say it with. Frowning, you reach up, brushing the scratchy five o’clock shadow scruff on his jaw. “What’s up, du — mmf!”

Peter leans down and kisses you.

It’s nothing like the few other times he’s kissed you, and that throws you for a loop. Usually it’s teeth and tongue and desperation, all sloppy with need. This, though? This is slow and soft and sweet, reminding you of how your grandparents kissed when you were very small.

You make a small noise in the back of your throat when Peter breaks the kiss. _No, please don’t stop._

“Peter…” He slides down so that you're resting against his chest, hands stuck between the two of you.

"Yeah?" His voice is quiet, and you suddenly have the urge to run far, far away.

 _What the hell?_ You're _not_ running away from this. It's good. He's good. _You're_ good. "I, uh, would you please kiss me again?"

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile. "Yeah, I can do that."

He tastes like pineapple.

Your eyes flutter shut as you press against him, hands sliding up to stroke over his jaw and weave through his hair. You lucked out. Peter's a really, really good kisser. His nose (broken once, twice, three times before he'd even ever met you) bumps against yours. You giggle into the kiss.

He pulls away again, cheeks pink beneath his stubble. "I... _wow._ Do you want to move this to the bed? I'd, uh, really like to keep kissing you... everywhere."

"Everywhere?" Your eyebrows inch up your forehead as you nod and blush. "I think that'd be nice."

Peter sits up, sliding an arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees before lifting you up. He carries you to his bed like you weigh nothing. You would be lying if you said that didn’t do _things_ to you.

The air in your lungs _whooshes_ out of you when he tosses you down onto the mattress. His sheets smell like him, sugary and a little bit sweaty.

You love it; you love — _nope._

You’re not going down that road. Look how well it turned out for you last time! No, you’re not going to complicate shit with _feelings._ That wouldn’t be fair to Peter — it’s not what you agreed on, after all — or you.

He throws a leg over your body, straddling your thighs like a lifeline. You can feel — and see — his cock chubbing in his sweats, but you don’t feel the usual burst of heat it typically brings out in you. You settle your hand on his knee. “Peter?”

“Yeah?” He leans over you, breath tickling your neck. “What’s up, baby?”

“Could you – can you just… hold me? I don’t want — I don’t know, _fuck_ — !” You huff in irritation at your lack of words to express what you want. Hell, _you’re_ not even sure what it is that you’re asking for, if you’re going to be honest.

“Hey, hey, yeah, I can do that.” Peter cups your face in his hands, the calluses on his thumbs scratching across your cheeks in a pleasant brush of skin against skin. He rolls off of you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you so that your back is flush against his chest. “Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly? I’m just… feeling _not normal._ Would it be weird if I stayed over without sex? I don’t wanna be alone tonight.”

Peter tightens his arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin behind your ear. “It’s not weird. You’re always more than welcome to stay. I like holding you like this, anyways. And as a superhero, I am unable to lie, so that’s the honest truth.”

“You’re such a dork,” you say, but you’re giggling and relaxing against him. It feels so _right,_ being tucked against Peter like this. His laughter rumbles in his chest, vibrating against your shoulder blades.

“You should have met me when I was in college — I was an even bigger dork back then.”

“I would’ve been what, five? I probably would’ve thought that you were the coolest person on the planet.” You get halfway through a yawn before you move to cover your mouth. “Sorry. I swear I’m not actually bored; it was a really long week at work and I have the day off tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter says, stroking your tummy. “You could do it more often, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Stay over. If you want to, I mean. I don’t mind it. I actually really like it. It’s like the dessert of my day.” You scoff at this new information, but really, it makes your insides feel all gooey and warm. “If you’re really as tired as you say you are, you really oughta hit the hay, baby.”

“I know, I know,” you curl into Peter’s chest, relishing how goddamn _soft_ he is against your back. He makes you feel so safe and warm. “G’night, Peter.”

“‘Night,” he whispers back.

You don’t actually fall asleep for a long while afterwards, watching the silvery glow of the moon travel over the wall across from you. Peter eventually dozes off, nose in your hair and lips against your neck. It’s… really, really nice, you decide. If he keeps letting you to sleep over like he did tonight, Peter’ll have a supremely difficult time prying you out of his bed (and his life).


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, you open your eyes without the help of an obnoxious alarm. It’s a nice change. Sunbeams stream in through the window, illuminating dust motes like flecks of gold. You feel languid and loose as you stretch beneath the sheets, like you’d spent the night having great sex — not that you had, of course, but the feeling is there.

Sometime during the night, Peter has ended up on his back, face tucked into one elbow. His other arm is stretched out behind you on top of the pillows. You’re halfway on top of Peter, your legs tangled up with his. He’s snoring. You stay wrapped up in the sheets for a while longer, simply enjoying the morning, but eventually your bladder twinges and has you scrambling for the bathroom.

You finish your business in the bathroom in record time. _Would Peter mind if I used the shower?_ Deciding it doesn’t really matter since he’s used your shower — which has superior water pressure, you discover — before, you turn on the hot water, stripping down to your socks. The tiles are cold beneath your toes as you hop from first one foot and then the other as you tug the socks from your feet. Steam curls in the air, fogging the mirror.

You hiss as you step under the shower head. The water is scalding, stinging your skin shades of angry scarlet. Your fingers fumble with the smooth knob, slipping on tarnished silver finish. The steady flow of water cools to a more reasonable temperature and you sigh in relief. The skin of your shoulders and chest fades to a more natural tone.

Maybe it’s the rhythm of water on the tiles or maybe it is the radiating burst of energy you get from the contrasting heat and cold, but your muscles relax to the point where you’re pretty sure that you’ll fall over. Your hand shoots out to rest on the damp wall. The resounding _thump_ that it makes must wake Peter, because he’s bursting into the bathroom a few seconds later, sweatpants sagging and hair sticking up in every direction.

“Whuzzit–?!” His mouth goes slack when he sees you peeking out at him from behind the curtain, water dripping down your forehead. You kind of really want to kiss him.

“Sorry about that,” you say as you smile at him. “I, uh, I slipped a bit? I guess?” Peter licks his lower lip, catching it in his teeth as he looks you up and down through the sheer shower curtain. It doesn’t leave much at all to the imagination.

“What god gave you the right to be so damn pretty?” Peter looks wistful as he says it, like he’s not allowed to touch you.

“I don’t know what deities you follow, but I want in,” you joke, smiling. “Do you mind if I use your shampoo? I don’t wanna run through the hall naked to grab mine.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, sure.” He has a strange expression on his face. You thank him and pop the cap off of the bottle. It smells like cedar wood. It smells like _him._

The next few minutes are quiet as you massage your scalp, bubbles forming beneath your fingertips. An ambulance wails in the distance. It’s… not peaceful, but it is something very close to that. You wouldn’t mind if it was like this every morning.

You’re almost surprised when Peter joins you in the shower — almost, but not quite. The bath is nearly too small, forcing him to crowd up against you. His skin is pleasantly cool in contrast to the water. You glance up at him with a grin. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He returns your smile with one of his own, crooked and shy. “I could do that, if you want.”

“Do what?” (Let it be known throughout the universe that you are not the brightest bulb in the box.)

“Your hair. I could wash it for you.”

“Oh. You don’t have to, Peter.”

“I want to though. If you’ll let me, that is.”

You  shrug in response, but tip your head backwards so that he can thread his fingers through your hair. Nobody’s washed your hair for you since you were young. It’s… nice, you decide. Weird, but nice. He’s very thorough, starting at the crown of your head and working his way down.

“You’re very good at this, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Washing my hair. You do this often?”

“Wash _my_ hair? Probably not as often as I should. Washing _your_ hair? This is the first time.” You slap blandly at his middle, giggling.

“Oooh, you’re baaaad, Peter B. Parker. Shame on you for making terrible jokes.” He snorts and doesn’t reply, nudging you forward with his hips to stand underneath the spray of warm water. The rest of the shower passes relatively quickly, with the two of you switching place when Peter washes his own hair.

The domesticity of the entire situation strikes you as you step — and, very, very briefly _slip_ — out of the shower. It’s so _easy_ to fall into that with Peter (pun not intended). You shouldn’t get used to it; really, you shouldn’t. That’s just asking for a broken heart.

Drying off doesn’t take long; you rub yourself down with a towel and slide back into your pants. You don’t bother putting your underwear back on. What would the point be? You live five feet away… literally. You toss them into the clothes hamper in the corner of Peter’s bedroom. The hamper is unsurprisingly empty. _He really needs to start using that._

Your bra  is folded and placed by the door in preparation for when you leave. _He won’t mind if I just…_ you slip on one of his shirts, a ragged green band tee with an image of untied Chuck Taylors on the chest. It’s incredibly soft.

The pipes groan in the walls as the shower shuts off. You raise your eyebrows when Peter comes out of the bathroom dressed in the suit. “You planning on going back out later?”

“Probably. Crime doesn’t sleep, you know.”

“I like the addition of sweatpants, by the way. Real classy.”

“Do you want me to bend you over my knee and spank you?”

“Yes,” you mumble under your breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Heat pricks at your cheeks. “Hey, come lay down with me. Just for a bit. Then you can go off and fight crime or whatever.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at you, but joins you on the bed when you pat the sheets next to you. Like a magnet you slide over to him, wrapping one leg around both of his and clinging to his side. Peter wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. _He’s so warm._

You lay like that for a while. His heartbeat is a steady rhythm beneath your ear, lulling you into a hazy half-doze on his chest.

The peace doesn’t last long.

Peter tenses beneath you and the hair on your arms and the back of your neck stands on end. “Uh… Peter?”

He shushes you with a finger on your mouth. “What the…?”

Reality shatters above you.

“What the _fuck_ is _that?”_ You screech, staring into the technicolor abyss that’s opened up in the ceiling above the two of you. Gravity warps, and you can feel yourself rise a few inches off of the mattress. Your stomach drops to your toes.

He doesn’t answer your question, shoving you out of the bed. “Get against the wall!”

You hit the floor with a softer thud than you normally would. Scrambling to your feet, you trip over nothing and slam against the exposed brick of the wall. Peter swings a hand in your direction and webs you against the wall. “Hey, wait — !”

“Call MJ!” The last thing you see him do is shoot opaque webbing at his dresser, pulling his mask after him. Light flashes through the room and then everything is silent aside from your terrified breathing.

_What. The. Fuck?_

* * *

Your hands tremble as you scroll through Facebook. _MJ, MJ, MJ, Mary Jane, where_ are _you?_ _Why would he want me to find her? Isn’t she just… a reporter or something? What can she do to help?_

The less cynical part of your brain perks up. _Maybe she knows something about all of this? Or maybe she can FIND something about it all?_

Intense afternoon light cuts through your window like a knife, reflecting onto your laptop’s screen. It hurts your eyes to keep staring at it, but your desk is here and you really don’t want to move more than you need to. You think, distantly, that this must be what shock feels like. What shock is.

It’s been a day since the portal sucked Peter to who-knows-where. It feels like it’s been a lifetime.

You get through all of the Mary Janes of New York and click angrily out of the tab. _If I were Peter’s ex-wife, where would I have social media?_ A thought strikes you, and you almost bang your head against the edge of your desk in exasperation. _Wait. Peter’s ex-wife. Peter’s_ phone. _Oh my god, I’m a fucking fool. I’ve been looking in the wrong place the entire time._

You push away from your desk, floorboards squeaking in protest as you quickly stand. It doesn’t take long for you to get into Peter’s apartment, but finding Peter’s cell phone proves to be more difficult that you anticipated. Whatever the _thing_ — you are hesitant to call it a portal, because that’s just nuts, right? — was, it had made Peter’s apartment even messier than before.

 _‘_ ** _Call_ ** _MJ,’ he’d said. And what do I do? Straight to the computer! Ugh._

It takes you half and hour, a cobweb on your hand and one pair of dusty pants, but you find Peter’s battered old Motorola flip phone beneath the dresser in his bedroom, along with several large dust bunnies. _He could start a zoo or a museum down here._ There’s a new dent in the side, but the cover screen still works. You flip it open. His background is a photo of you.

He’d snapped it months ago, back when you first started hanging around each other outside of sex. You’re laughing at something he’d said in it, cheeks rosy and mouth wide. In all honesty, it’s not a very flattering picture. The lighting is off and the whole thing is fuzzy in the way most old phone photos are. But… you look happy. Really, truly happy. That’s probably why he kept it.

 _Oh, no._ You sniff. _Nope, stop that. No crying. We’ve got shit to do. Like getting a hold of Mary Jane._

The navigation keys stick as you go through the horribly dull UI of Peter's phone. You jiggle the cell with two fingers, cursing. Something rattles on the inside.

"That... doesn't sound good," you mumble to yourself. The screen flickers black for a moment. _Shit._ "Uh-uh, no, no, no, you're not allowed to do that!"

The thumb of your right hand flies across the keyboard as you reach for your own phone with your left. Peter doesn’t have very many contacts. There’s someone listed as J[3], one Flash Thompson, the pizza place that _isn’t_ Luca’s ( _Traitor,_ you think absently), you and Mary Jane. The screen flickers again. You swear loudly, clicking on Mary Jane’s contact profile.

Clumsy bastard that you are, you fumble your own phone, dropping it. You manage to catch it before it hits the ground. Straightening the phone, you slide your thumb up the lock screen and snap a few blurry pictures. Peter’s cell flickers and dies just after you do so. _Lucky break._

You leave the now-defunct phone on the dresser, on top of a folded pair of sweats.

Sighing, you look at the images on your phone. They’re blurry, yes, but not blurry enough to render them useless. You dial the number, but you hesitate to hit the call button. Anxiety rears its ugly head at the worst possible time. Your breath catches. _Oh, no you don’t,_ you think sourly. _Don’t you_ dare _chicken out now._

Steeling yourself, you swallow your irrational fears and hit the dial button.

The phone rings once, twice, three times before someone answers it. “Hello?”

“Um. Hi. Is - is this Mary Jane?” You can hear laughter in the background.

“Oh! No, lemme get her for you.” The woman on the other end covers the microphone, muffling all sound coming in from her end. “MJ! Someone’s on the phone for you, baby! I - no, I don’t know.” She uncovers the microphone. “Who are you?”

“I - I, uh…” You tell her your name. “I know Mary Jane doesn’t know me, but it’s really, really important that I speak to her. Like, yesterday, if possible.” Your voice cracks. _Damn it, hold the emotions in for just five seconds, please._

“Just a sec.” You can hear lowered voices on the other end of the phone, and then it switches hands.

“Hello?” _So_ that’s _what Mary Jane Watson-Parker_ _sounds like._

“Yeah, um, hi. I need to talk to you about, uh… Peter.”

“Peter? Whatever he’s done, I have no obligation to him any longer. We divorced over two years ago.”

“Wait!” Panic bleeds through your voice. “Wait, please. He’s _missing._ I need your help. The last thing he told me to do before he fucking _vanished_ into the goddamn ceiling was to call you.”

Mary Jane whispers something to her roommate — _girlfriend?_ — before speaking to you again. “What do you _mean_ , ‘he vanished into the ceiling’?”

“I mean he literally was sucked into a portal in the roof. I don’t - I can’t —” Taking a deep breath, you begin again. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’m scared — for myself and what this means for the world _and_ Peter. I’m not a superhero like he is. I’m _ordinary._ I  just…”

“You know about…?”

“Yeah.”

More whispers between Mary Jane and her lady-friend. “We can meet you at a coffee place. Is the one on the corner of Madison and Emery okay?”

“Yes.” _No._ “I can get there in a few minutes.” _I’m going to have to find a taxi cab._ “I really appreciate this, Ms. Watson.”

“No problem. See you there.” She hangs up.

You sit, listening to the dial tone before hanging up yourself. “Shi-it.”

* * *

Normally, the sounds of New York City are a pleasant backdrop of white noise for your everyday life. They don’t feel pleasant today. Every loud sound seems determined to give you a heart attack. You can’t stop hearing the _ripping_ of reality, and it’s really starting to fuck with your head.

You spot a flash of red hair. _That must be her,_ you think.

But… you don’t move. It’s as though your legs have been turned to stone, calcified by the weight of all that’s happened in the last day and a half.

So, instead, you raise your hand and wave at Mary Jane. MJ doesn’t see you, but the tall blonde beside her does. She nudges Mary Jane, pointing at you. Your legs start working again, moving you towards the two women of their own volition.

“Hi, there.” Mary Jane sticks her hand out for you to shake. “It’s good to meet you in person.”

You don’t move and stare at her hand like a dumbass. The three of you stand in awkward silence for a minute before you pull yourself together, clasping her hand briefly.

“You, too. Um…” You glance between the two women.

“Oh, and this is Gwen, my partner.” The blonde — Gwen — nods at you, a thin smile curving her lips. “So, what’s this about Peter?”

“Should we really be talking about that in public?” Your brows pinch together as you look around the busy street.

“You aren’t local, are you?”

“What have it away? The lack of a Brooklyn accent?” The look that you level at Gwen is drier than the Sahara.

“Nah, just the paranoia.” For some reason, _that_ is what pricks at your temper. You frown.

“I’m _paranoid_ because my neighbor got sucked into a goddamn portal to who-knows-where.”

Mary Jane herds you and Gwen to an out-of-the-way bench. “How did you find out that Peter, erm, moonlights as… you know?”

“He told me.” It’s not a lie, strictly speaking. He _did_ tell you… after you found his mask in your laundry basket while you were in the complex’s basement laundry room. You say as much to them. “He didn’t have to say that much, though. I figured a lot of it out on my own. He’s not exactly subtle.”

I figured a lot of it out on my own. He’s not exactly subtle.”

Peter’s ex-wife stifles a laugh. “Yeah, he really isn’t, is he?”

You jiggle your leg, a nervous habit that you’ve failed to break over the years. “So…”

“So…” Gwen leans back, wrapping an arm around Mary Jane’s shoulders. “What exactly is your _relationship_ with Parker?”

“I, um. Pardon?” You feel light-headed. This isn’t what you came here to discuss. _Besides,_ you think irritably, _isn’t what happens behind closed doors meant to be private? It’s none of their business what Peter and I get up to._

The displeasure must show on your face, because Mary Jane elbows Gwen. “ _Gwen._ It’s none of our business.”

The blonde shrugs, expression bland. “So sue me, I’m curious.” She turns back towards you. “Really, though. How’d his mask get mixed up with your laundry?”

Your face hardens. “I didn’t come here to be interrogated about my relationship with Peter, and—”

“So it _is_ a relationship, then?”

You don’t answer her right away, pinching the bridge of your nose and sighing. A passing police car _vwhoop-vwhoops_ as it passes by your bench. It is a totally unrelated thing, but it still startles you into standing.

“I’m sorry, this was a stupid idea. I’m just - I’m just going to go home and hope that he pops back in by the day after tomorrow.” Tugging the collar of your jacket up around your ears, you smile tightly at Mary Jane and Gwen. “I hope you have a nice rest of your day, Mary Jane, Gwen.”

* * *

You stiffly walk away before either of them can get a word in edgewise.

The evening sun is painting your apartment walls in fiery oranges and reds when your text notification goes off. It’s no one from your contacts, but you recognize the number. It’s Mary Jane. _Why is she…?_

> _(6:23) I’m sorry about earlier. Gwen is… still hurt for me over how things ended between Peter and I._
> 
> _(6:25) dont worry about it. he actually hasnt told me much of anything about HOW everything ended. its not really any of my business, anyways._

You sit with the text box open for a minute, thinking about how to put what you’re about to say into words. The little blinking blue cursor mocks you.

> _(6:26) im sorry for walking off like i did. i dont think im handling this very well? its jarring to see your neighbor get sucked into a vortex._
> 
> _(6:27) Don’t worry about it! I would react the same. I will admit, though… I am curious about your relationship with Peter. You don’t need to say anything, if it makes you uncomfortable._
> 
> _(6:29) im in a better headspace now (mostly) so ask away i guess?_

Mary Jane’s reply comes so fast that it sets your head spinning.

> _(6:29) How did you two meet?_
> 
> _(6:30) he gave the pizza delivery boy the wrong address. its pretty silly looking back. i spent a lot of time knocking on the doors of people that were NOT peter._
> 
> _(6:30) Did you pay for the pizza?_
> 
> _(6:31) yeah. im not a barbarian lol._

The back and forth you build up with Mary Jane is… well, for lack of a better word, comforting. Working from home doesn’t really provide opportunities to form friendships in the real world, and the banter between the two of you is well on its way to building a solid foundation for a friendship. You really need to socialize more often.

You learn that she’s known Gwen for almost as long as she’s known Peter. Apparently, Gwen and Peter were thick as thieves growing up, but something (that Gwen refuses to tell Mary Jane about) happened between them and then they drifted apart during high school. When Mary Jane mentions that it happened a short time before she and Peter started dating, a niggling thought passes through your mind — _maybe Gwen and Peter fell out because they were both into Mary Jane?_ You simply shrug to yourself. Without asking Gwen — unlikely to happen — or Peter — impossible at the moment — directly, you’ll never really know the truth.

> _(7:53) Listen, I need to go pretty soon, but if you ever want to actually grab coffee together, let me know, okay?_
> 
> _(7:54) thanks for the offer :) i’ll probably take you up on it one day._
> 
> _(7:55) Great! Hope to hear from you soon!_

You set your phone down on your kitchen table with a dull thump. Talking to Mary Jane was... enlightening... but it also brought up some confusing feelings that you would rather not deal with.

Peter was — _is,_ you remind yourself — a very important part of your life. It's difficult for you to imagine what it would be like to not have him as a constant fixture in your day-to-day existence, if not flat-out impossible. For nearing six months, he's always been there, first as only a comfort and a really, really good fuck, but then as a friend and, most recently, a lover. Peter has made you feel valued in a way that your ex-fiance never had in all of the years that you were with him.

Sighing, you stand up, cracking your back as you go. The _pop-pop-pop_ of your vertebrae makes you grimace. Peter always laughs when you do it, saying that you sound like a bag of popcorn.

 _He's such a dork,_ you think fondly. _I wish he were here._

Your throat tightens and burns. You miss him terribly.

Pushing aside the beginnings of tears, you feed yourself some off-brand instant noodles and get yourself ready for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind that I've only seen Into the Spider-Verse once, so I'm going off of a timeline that is probably inaccurate. I might go back and edit for continuity later on, but for now this is what I've got for y'all. The end is nigh!
> 
> NOTE: Edited on 6 Jan 2019 for flow and thought.


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